<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>be sure to wear flowers in your hair by bringmoreknivez</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29815287">be sure to wear flowers in your hair</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringmoreknivez/pseuds/bringmoreknivez'>bringmoreknivez</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>My Chemical Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hippies, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, References to the Beatles, Songfic, Vietnam War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:14:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,198</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29815287</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringmoreknivez/pseuds/bringmoreknivez</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Nothing will affect that, it seems. Not even the draft card burning a hole in the back pocket of his jeans.</i>
</p><p>Gerard and Frank meet in San Francisco during the 1967 Summer of Love.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Frank Iero/Gerard Way</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>be sure to wear flowers in your hair</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is literally just an angsty 60s AU because I wanted to write about Gerard and Frank as hippies. This was also written as a way to help get over some major writer's block with the bigger fic I'm working on right now. </p><p>No beta and written super quick, so all mistakes are my own. Enjoy, and as always, I love and appreciate anyone who leaves feedback! xoxo</p><p>The fic's title comes from the Scott McKenzie song "San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair)."</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> With our love, we could save the world, if they only knew </em>
</p><p>
  <em> - “Within You Without You,” The Beatles</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b><em>San Francisco, CA, USA. Summer of 1967.</em> </b>
</p><p>He remembers when Frank had strolled on into the record shop for the first time back in May. Totally cooked out of his mind, fucking <em> zonked</em>, asking about the new Beatles record and if they’d gotten any in yet. He remembers chuckling, regretfully telling Frank that they’d been fully sold out since morning and that he’d have to come back and check again next week. Frank nodded, and was quick to leave the shop, the little silver bell affixed to the top of the door tinkling on his way out.</p><p>But Frank would be back the next week. And he’d be back again in the weeks following, too, even after he’d finally scored a copy of <em> Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band</em>. He’d be back, to ask for album recommendations, to ask questions about the permanence of the ever-growing cosmos of the universe.</p><p>He remembers how he’d totally reeked of weed, and how long his dark hair had been, just grazing the top of his shoulders. You never saw hair that long back in Jersey—the energy in San Francisco was fucking <em> magnetic</em>, almost as if some unseen force of nature was drawing people like Frank there. He remembers how he’d always looked curious, the way his eyes gripped onto a person and were almost reluctant to let go (even if he was baked). He was always looking for the next best thing, whether it be the next great rock ‘n’ roll record or the next person to turn on with. </p><p>Not much has changed since then. </p><p>Gerard takes one long puff from the joint he’d rolled and passes it to Frank. He’s sort of just staring up at the blank ceiling ahead of him from where he’s laying in bed, thinking about <em> things</em>. About how everything feels so fucking temporary, but if he doesn’t act on shit now, it’ll somehow have dire ramifications for the remainder of his time here on Earth. </p><p>Gerard rolls over and turns to Frank, who’s lying parallel to him, taking one thoughtful drag after another, tufts of smoke drifting past his lips. He takes his sweet time, hazy clouds swirling about his face, and then stubs out the joint on the dirty ceramic ashtray that’s taking up residence on the nightstand. Frank then, likely sensing Gerard’s gaze, shifts his body on the mattress to better face him. He smiles, licking his dry lips, and his eyes lock down into Gerard’s. His hair is still long, if not more so than when they first met. </p><p>Nothing will affect that, it seems. Not even the draft card burning a hole in the back pocket of his jeans.</p><p>“D’you think we could do it?”</p><p>There’s a palpable tension in the room and Gerard is apparently the first to have enough balls to take it on headfirst. </p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“Don’t play dumb. You know what I’m talking about.”</p><p>Gerard, for one, knows what he’s talking about. From the very first time they’d smoked together to the time they’d hitchhiked all the way to the fucking Monterey Pop Festival all while barely knowing each other, there’d been something <em> different</em>. There’d been something <em> different </em> in the way Frank talked to him, the way he looked at him. It was <em> different </em> when they’d do things with each other, <em> to </em> each other—things Gerard had only ever done or dreamed of doing with girls. It was <em> different </em> when they’d lie out on the grass together at night, threading fake constellations together in the sky, speaking to each other like they were the only two people in the entire universe.</p><p>Gerard doesn’t think he’s queer. Really, he knows he <em> can’t </em> be. But, <em> fuck</em>. He feels like Frank has him ensnared, totally <em> fucking </em> enraptured, without any fathomable possibility of release. </p><p>Somehow, Gerard thinks that The Beatles are partially to blame for this. </p><p>“I guess I’ve gotta go to war, though. Go shoot at people in a foreign country I have nothing to fucking do with,” Frank sighs. Gerard senses that there’s something sarcastic in his tone, almost as if the reality of it all hasn’t quite settled in his conscience yet.</p><p>Gerard chews on his lip and scoots forward, inching himself nearer to Frank and his bare body. He pauses, and buries his nose into the soft skin just below Frank’s collarbone. He inhales before murmuring, “You don’t <em> have </em> to.”</p><p>Near instantly, Gerard feels a slender hand work its way into his hair, fingers carding their way through the strands repetitively. It’s comforting. Frank then chuckles, and Gerard is overly attentive to the sudden rise and fall of his chest.</p><p>“What do you mean? Burn my draft card?” Frank ponders out loud. Although Gerard isn’t looking him in the face, he can hear the grin playing on his lips. “You’re sounding crazier than I usually do, man.”</p><p>“They’re gonna ship you off to die,” Gerard says bleakly, dragging himself away from Frank’s chest to look him in the eyes more properly. Frank’s own eyes, still red and completely shot, are fixed upwards, staring blankly at the same ceiling Gerard had been looking at only moments ago. “It’s your only fucking option.”</p><p>Gerard, then, is barely cognizant of the tears that are beginning to prick at the corners of his own eyes. He’s barely cognizant of the sudden, consistent thrum of his heart. What he is cognizant of, however, is the painful way in which his stomach is turning as he looks at Frank, imagining his body shot full of bullets, lying forgotten in the middle of a darkly dense jungle. </p><p>Frank snaps his gaze away from the ceiling and looks back to Gerard. His expression hardens for a moment, and his brows knit together. He shakes his head.</p><p>“Even if I weren’t drafted, it’d never work between us, you know that, Gerard? You <em> know </em> what they do to people like us.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Gerard says. He thinks his voice is wavering, but at this point, he sort of can’t discern what it even sounds like as the words leave his mouth. “Nobody’d need to know.”</p><p>Gerard thinks he can feel Frank scooting closer, the warmth coming off his body washing all over him. Looking at Frank just in front of him, looking at how little the ever-changing San Francisco has managed to change him over the months they’ve known each other, Gerard is once again thinking about <em> things</em>. Looking at Frank’s bare chest, a chest that’ll soon more than likely have to bear the weight of a M14, Gerard is once again reminded of the simultaneity of permanence and impermanence in this world.</p><p>Bringing himself ever-closer, Frank’s lips are now just before Gerard’s, the remaining pungent scent of smoke still detectable on his breath. This time, his voice is just above a whisper, despite the fact that the two of them are the only current occupants of Gerard’s impossibly tiny Haight-Ashbury apartment. “Give it up, Gerard,” he says, his tone serious, “let’s just make the most of <em> right now </em> before I have to leave.”</p><p>That’s what they do.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Nothing else to say but thanks for reading! Keep up with me on Tumblr @ infernalfields &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>